Black Sea Affair

by Don Brown

  "Blaming your incompetence on a dead man, are you?"

  "No, Comrade President. My apologies…"

  "… I was not referring to the Army's battle plan. I was referring to your plan for finding that plutonium that your subordinates lost, and your plan to find it before the rebels turn it into a thermonuclear device that could wipe out every troop we have in Chechnya!"

  "Yes, sir. I understand, sir."

  "Understand this. Someone… I do not know who… but someone was upset with Defense Minister Popkov for this whole plutonium affair. Now I have consolidated Popkov's power under my authority. You are second in command of the army. For your own protection, General, I expect this bumbling incompetence to end with Popkov's assassination. Do I make myself perfectly clear?"

  "Perfectly, sir."

  "Find that plutonium, and find it now!"

  "Yes, sir."

  Evtimov turned to his foreign minister, Alexander Alexeyvich Kotenkov. "Minister Kotenkov? You had something?"

  "Yes, Comrade President, we have a communique from your old friend Mack Williams."

  Evtimov folded his arms across his stomach and leaned back in his chair. "I suppose the cowboy president wants his submarine back?"

  "He has not said that yet, Vitaly Sergeivich. He has, however, proposed a prisoner exchange."

  "Ahh. And what sort of exchange does President Rambo have in mind?"

  "Our fighter pilot for his submarine crew."

  Evtimov unleashed a belly laugh, then tried containing his laughter by swigging down ice water. "Tell Williams that we will give them the lowest enlisted member of their sub crew when they return our pilot."

  The foreign minister chuckled. "The Americans have also said that a Lieutenant Commander Brewer is available to defend their submarine commander."

  "Brewer?" Evtimov was sure he had heard the name. "Is he the JAG officer that prosecuted the Muslim chaplains?"

  "Yes, Comrade President."

  Evtimov thought about that. "What do you think of this, Alexeyvich?"

  "I believe we should allow this, Comrade President."

  "Interesting. Why do you say this?"

  "Public relations. Remember our purpose. We allow military counsel from an accused's home country because our system appears fair to the international community. Brewer's presence will not change the outcome, only call attention to what the Americans have done and make us look fair."

  "Yes, " Evtimov said.

  "We let them bring their best counsel. Points for our side. Then he loses."

  "Intriguing." Evtimov scratched his chin.

  "Not only that, Comrade President, but I recommend that we move this trial from Moscow to St. Petersburg."

  "St. Petersburg? What is wrong with Moscow?"

  "Nothing is wrong with Moscow. But again, remember our overall strategic objective. The world will be watching this. Members of the international press will request to be present.

  "St. Petersburg is our most beautiful city. We received rave reviews when we hosted the 2006 G-8 Summit there. Think of the symbolic power with the world media if we were to move this trial to St. Nicholas Naval Cathedral."

  "Interesting, " the president mused. "We prosecute this crew in the cathedral that has hallowed the loss of brave Russian sailors since thetime of Peter the Great. Hmm. Perhaps we can erect a memorial there to the crew of the Alexander Popovich."

  "A splendid idea, Comrade President. Plus if we try this case in Moscow, because the city is our capital, I fear that the trial will appear more political to the international community. It is not absolutely necessary that we move this trial, but in a public relations war, every small advantage helps. St. Nicholas Cathedral, a building that honors the brave dead lost at sea, would be the perfect backdrop for this war crimes trial. That is my recommendation."

  The president thought about that for a moment. The foreign minister was correct about St. Petersburg. The city was Russia's most beautiful. And not only that, it was the home city of the president of the Russian Repubic.

  "Very well. We shall move the trial to St. Petersburg. Meanwhile" -the president turned his attention to General Alexander Ivanov, military chief of the Russian Air Force – "I want the Americans to understand that we are not going to back down militarily. What is the status of our strategic bombers in Vladivostok?"

  "We have thirty-nine Bear bombers operational and ready to fly, sir. In addition to that, we have another forty Backfire bombers at your disposal."

  "Very well. Get the planes in the air. Send them north, and then east. I want them to buzz the coast of Alaska, just as far south along the coast as our fuel supplies will allow. Refuel them midair. Do whatever you need to do. But I want a show of strength against the Americans."

  "Do you want them armed with nuclear warheads, Comrade President?"

  Evtimov thought about that for a moment. "We have no assurances that the American planes flying near our border over Georgia have only conventional weapons, do we?"

  "No, sir."

  "Very well, arm the bombers with nuclear weapons."

  Residence of Captain Bill Callahan Canberra, Australia

  Zack Brewer gripped the horseshoe, vicing it between his thumbs and fingers. He stepped forward with his left foot and pitched it underhand.

  Clang.

  Great. Another ringer.

  He had gone from prosecuting the most high-profile court-martial in the history of the U.S. to tossing ringers in seclusion on the world's most remote continent as legal aide to the United States Naval Attache. Despite all the typical "detailer talk" about how the billet would help his experience in international legal matters, Zack knew the reality of why he was here.

  Death threats had been made against him, and Australia was the safest place for him. In other words, he'd been "put out to pasture" by the Navy for his own protection, but he was ready to get back to the fleet.

  "Zack."

  Oh no, not another offer of lemonade and cookies.

  Shielding the sun with his right hand, he looked aross the lush grass to the back screen porch of the attache's quarters.

  "Right out here, Mrs. Callahan."

  "Bill's on the phone, Zack. He says it's urgent."

  Zack broke into a slight jog toward his hostess. She handed him the cordless phone.

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Pack your bags. Washington's got a high-profile assignment for you. I'll pick you up in one hour and brief you on the plane."

  Zack's heart jumped. Finally, a ticket back into the action. Right now, anything sounded good. "Aye, aye, sir! I'll be ready!"

  CHAPTER 27

  British lookout post

  The Rock of Gibraltar

  Lieutenant Jeremy Tomlinson, Royal Navy of the British Empire, swung his telescope down into the broad channel separating the north wall of the Rock from the Spanish coastline.

  The telescope swept the waterway. The bow of the long, low-lying freighter sailed into view.

  The ship was churning from right to left. Tomlinson flicked the telescope just to the right to keep the ship in view.

  The stern came into full view. From it fluttered a horizontally divided red-white-black flag with the so-called eagle of Saladin in the middle of the white stripe.

  Tomlinson picked up the phone. "Gibraltar Lookout to HMS Sabre."

  "HMS Sabre. Go ahead, Gibraltar."

  "We've got an Egyptian freighter entering the channel. Can't make out the name on the stern. I'll leave that one to you, ole boy."

  "Roger that, Gibraltar. We are on it."

  HMS Sabre

  The Straits of Gibraltar

  Lieutenant Stephen Stacks, commanding officer of the HMS Sabre, scrambled his four-man crew. Within minutes, the patrol boat was cutting through the waters at Gibraltar Harbor.

  Flash message traffic indicated that Britain's closest ally was on the hunt for an Egyptian freighter, the Al Alamein, and that such freighter might try escaping the Mediterranean either via the Suez Canal
or the Straits of Gibraltar.

  Stacks pushed down on the throttle, and the fifty-two-foot Royal Navy patrol boat planed out into the open water at more than thirty knots.

  Sabre cleared the huge Rock's south side. A few minutes later, the freighter came into view, steaming west toward the Atlantic.

  "Let's go have a look, " Stacks announced. The British patrol boat sped out into the Straits, and then sliced a path across the rolling swells, straight for the slower-moving freighter.

  Sabre closed to within one hundred yards, drawing a long blast from the freighter's horn. She veered to the right, shooting down the port side of the ship, then swung acoss her wake into the churning water behind her stern.

  Stacks brought his binoculars to his eyes, aiming for the stern, just under the flapping red, white, and black horizontally striped Egyptian flag.

  Al Alamein.

  "We've found her."

  The Al Alamein

  Straits of Gibraltar

  The British patrol boat is breaking off, Kapitan, " one of the deckhands announced.

  "The British are always pestering freighters, especially Arab freighters, around Gibraltar, " the first officer said.

  "Very well, " Captain Hosni Sadir muttered, looking out the bridge at the open waters of the Atlantic Ocean. No other escort vessels were anywhere in sight. No aircraft were overhead.

  His first officer was probably right. He'd seen it before himself. The Brits liked buzzing around the Straits in their speedboats like they owned the place – as if they were reminding the world that Lord Nelson had won the Battle of Trafalgar against the Spanish in these very waters hundreds of years ago.

  Good.

  Let them live in the past. They had no clue that his ship was now a floating hydrogen bomb.

  Sadir looked over at Salman Dudayev, who was fiddling with some electric wires inside a black metal box over on the right side of the bridge.

  "How is the detonator coming, Salman?"

  "My work is nearly complete, Kapitan. Should you like, we could vaporize the Rock of Gibraltar from this very bridge."

  Sadir smiled at that thought. If they ignited the bomb now, at least the British would no longer pester Arab freighters entering or exiting the Straits.

  "Save the fireworks for our real target. Perhaps one day the Rock will bear a monument that we sailed past it on this day toward our glorious mission."

  "Praise be to Allah, " Salman Dudayev said.

  "Radar officer, what do you see out there?"

  "Nothing unusual, Kapitan. No one is paying us any attention. I predict smooth sailing all the way to our target."

  "Very well, " Sadir said. "All ahead full."

  "All ahead full."

  Al Alamein surged ahead in the water, planing slightly as she headed into the open waters of the Atlantic.

  The USS Charlotte Straits of Gibraltar

  Alert one! Alert one! Incoming emergency action message! Alert One! Alert One! Incoming EAM!"

  Commander Steve "Puck" Puckett, captain of the American nuclear submarine USS Charlotte, looked up at the loudspeaker blaring the announcement into the control room.

  "XO, take the conn."

  "Aye, Captain, I have the conn, " Lieutenant Commander Todd Swanson said.

  Puckett barreled through the narrow passageways, passing sailors who stood back and shouted, "Make way for the captain!"

  Puck stepped into the radio room.

  "Attention on deck!"

  "What have you got?" Pete barked.

  "The Brits have spotted the freighter. They're right on top of us, sir."

  Puckett took the message from the radio officer's hands.

  EMERGENCY ACTION MESSAGE

  FROM: NATIONAL MILITARY COMMAND CENTER – WASHINGTON, D.C.

  TO: USS CHARLOTTE

  SUBJECT: ACTION MESSAGE

  REMARKS: British Patrol Boat HMS Sabre has spotted Egyptian freighter Al Alamein in Gibraltar Straits fifteen minutes ago, course bearing two-seven-zero degrees.

  Sabre reports Al Alamein making run for open seas of Atlantic at fourteen knots.

  Your orders are maintain surveillance of Al Alamein until ordered to break off by National Command Authority.

  Be prepared to attack or board by SEAL team on orders of National Command Authority.

  Commander Puckett rushed back to the bridge.

  "Attention on deck!"

  "I have the conn!" Puckett said. "Up scope!"

  Puckett grabbed the periscope and swept the horizon. Within minutes the freighter came into view. She was cutting through the water about a mile to the submarine's east, making a run for the open sea.

  "Down scope!" Puckett shouted, then picked up the microphone and dialed the sonar room. "Sonar, do you have a read on that freighter?"

  "Aye, Captain, we've got her loud and clear. Single screw. Distinctive whine."

  "Stay on it. Don't let her out of your ears."

  "Aye, Captain."

  "XO, get the navigational chart out for Gibraltar."

  "Aye, sir." Lieutenant Commander Swanson complied, and the chart was rolled out on a small drafting table.

  "Chief of the Boat, OOD, everyone gather around." Puckett called the officers in the control room around him. "All right, let's mark this for the log, " Puckett said. "Here's our position." With a grease pencil, he marked the positon of the submarine. "Here's the position of the freighter. She's headed west." He marked the freighter's position.

  "We don't know where she's going, but Washington wants us to follow her and find out. If necessary, we're ordered to board her, or even sink her. So here's the plan. We'll let her pass over us, and then we'll maintain a depth of one hundred fifty feet, and we're going to follow in her wake. We'll use her noise to help camouflage our presence. Be ready and be alert." Puckett eyed his crew. "Any questions?"

  There were none.

  "Very well. Let's get on with it."

  Pulkovo International Airport St. Petersburg, Russia

  In a brown leather bomber jacket and blue jeans, and carrying a small black briefcase, Zack Brewer stepped out of the British Airways 767 into the enclosed jetway.

  Like the faces of the Russian passengers returning home, the jetway was cold. A wet fog blanketed the land.

  Hustling through the jetway and into the antiseptic-smelling hallway, Zack got in the customs line on the left, the line reserved for non Russians.

  A stern-faced woman, wearing a green military suit, with a skirt cut at her knees, and clubbed, black leather laceup shoes, stepped out from behind the glass booth and walked down the line of foreigners waiting to come through.

  "Commander Brewer!" the woman snapped in Slavic-accented English.

  "Dah meen yazavoot Commander Brewer, " Zack stepped out of line and responded in Russian.

  The woman raised her eyebrows.

  "You speak Russian, Commander?"

  "Neemeenoga, " Zack said.

  "Your visa, your passport, and your military identification card, please."

  Zack produced all three. The woman studied them for a moment. She took Zack's passport and visa, stamped them, and handed them back. "A car waits for you in front of the airport. Follow me."

  They walked past the foreigners waiting in the customs line, and then stepped into the corridor of the airport. Two armed Russian soldiers joined them, trailing them all the way to the passenger pickup section at the front of the airport.

  "Get into this car, please, " the woman said. One of the Russian soldiers opened the back door of the black Mercedes. "U.S. embassy personnel are in the car."

  Zack stepped into the car, sitting alone in the backseat. The car sped forward, sandwiched between two Russian military jeeps.

  An officer turned to greet him from the front passenger seat. "Welcome to Russia, Commander."

  "Thank you, ma'am."

  "I'm Captain Ann Glover, the U.S. Naval Attache to Russia."

  "A pleasure, ma'am."

  Zack looked out the w
indow as the armed motorcade sped out past the blue and yellow buildings into the thick fog.

  "You have to assume everything is bugged here, Zack. Even this car."

  Zack thought about that. How would he communicate with his client if everything was bugged?

  "You may wonder how you will represent your client under these circumstances."

  "You're a mind reader, ma'am."

  "I understand you've been briefed on the intelligence situation surrounding the capture of the crew?"

  "Yes, ma'am."

  "You'll have to prepare your defense primarily based on that."

  Talk about being handcuffed.

  "You have a problem with that, Zack?"

  "If those are my orders, those are my orders."

  They sped down a freeway, leaving the airport behind in the distance.

  "So what do you know about St. Petersburg, Zack?"

  "Let's see. The city was known as Leningrad during the Communist reign. When the USSR fell, they changed it back to St. Petersburg. Homeplace of Catherine the Great and President Evtimov. Supposedly Russia's most beautiful city."

  "You know more than most Americans, " Captain Glover said. "The city is on the eastern end of the Gulf of Finland. It is known as the Venice of the North because it literally sits on forty-four islands in the Delta of the Neva River."

  The fog thickened, but the driver raced through it like he was Dale Earnhardt Jr. or something. This made Zack nervous. He did not want to be driving in such thick fog, let alone speeding through it at a hundred miles per hour.

  "Why'd they change the trial from Moscow to St. Petersburg?" Zack tried distracting his mind from the specter of the Mercedes slamming into a concrete overpass.

  "Symbolism, I think." Captain Gover shrugged her shoulders. "St. Petersburg is a Navy town. We've heard they want to move the trial to St. Nicholas Naval Cathedral. Maybe they got good vibes from the 2006 G-8 Summit."

  Zack did not respond. He prayed silently for the task ahead and that the driver would slow down.

  FSB federal detention facility St. Petersburg, Russia

  Two hours later

  At least in Moscow, the cot was not so lumpy, nor was the cell so dark. Pete lay on his back, alone in the cell, wondering where they had taken him.